Voldemort and the Struggle for Life
by Achille Talon
Summary: AU diverging at Harry and Voldemort's confrontation in front of the Mirror of Erised (details in preface). What if Voldemort was not, actually, as evil as the (vague) stories told to Harry up to that point make him out to be? ABANDONED
1. The Stone

**PREFACE**

This both is, and is not, a "single point of departure" story. It is in an out-of-universe sense: this story works by following the book (or movie) of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ up to a certain point, and then taking a different path onwards (in our case, the point of divergence is the climax in front of the Mirror of Erised). However, it is not in-universe: not only am I not following the later books, but I'm not following background information revealed in later books either. This means that key elements of the canon backstory are no longer relevant, most notably revolving around Voldemort's past, motivations and actions during the First Wizarding War. Some concepts or characters from later books/movies might pop up again all the same, but any and all departures are fully intended.

On a wholly unrelated note, and though this is not a _HPMOR_ fanfanfic, I did get some inspiration from _Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality_ for this; I am a huge fan of it (actually, I'm more of a _HPMOR_ fan than of a Canon Harry Potter fan). Therefore, if some ideas seem to be reminiscent of it, don't be surprised.

I'd also like to give a warning. You'll be harshly disappointed if you come here expecting _Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality_ or _Seventh Horcrux_ : I'm still a very inexperienced writer. I hope this story will be entertaining, but it is my no means a masterpiece.

Finally, and relatedly, all my thanks to Kishoto on reddit, who gave me a very good idea on how to handle Lily Potter's death (a first, clumsier version of that chapter had been posted and met with negative reviews), and also those who helped me correct a number of silly typos, such as noggin-scratchet.

Now, to the story.

 **CHAPTER I**

 **The Stone**

It was a dark but ornate room, with a mirror on one side and a gate on the other. The mirror was not a normal looking glass — this was the Mirror of Erised, a magic artifact from long ago, built to show a wizard his heart's greatest desire. The Mirror was no longer quite as its makers had devised it, though; some time before then, Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of the Hogwarts school, had cast additional enchantments on it to conceal the fabled Philosopher's Stone.

In front of the Mirror, were two people — apparently. One of them, tall and dressed in Oriental-looking attire, was Professor Quirinius Quirrel, Defense agains the Dark Arts teacher, recently revealed to be a traitor. The other was Harry James Potter, student of Hogwarts and considered a national hero due to having witnessed (and possibly enabled) the presumed death of the infamous evil warlock Voldemort whilst still an infant. Just moments ago, Quirrel had revealed his treachery. Now he was pondering, looking at the Mirror:

"Now, how does this work? I see what I desire - I see myself holding the stone - but how do I get it?"

A raspy, hissing voice coming from an unseen source whispered:

"Use the boy."

Quirrel nodded ever so slightly, before shouting:

"Come here, Potter! Now!"

The young boy walked forward hesitatingly, raised his head and looked at the mirror.

"Tell me, Potter, asked Quirrel. What do you see?"

Potter, as a matter of fact, saw himself holding what seemed to be a rough piece of amber (and knowing, somehow, that this was the Philosopher's Stone) and pocketing it. Feeling his own pocket, he noticed a lump that wasn't there before, identical to the one in the mirror. He barely held back a yelp of surprised. But whatever hatever that liar Quirrel was planning to do with the precious artifact, it was probably nothing good. He opted to lie, clumsily imitating the unimportant vision of his friend Ron.

"I… I'm shaking hands with Dumbledore. I've… won the house cup."

Again the hissing voice:

"He lies!"

Visibly unnerved, Quirrel ordered even more imperatively:

"Tell the truth! What do you see?"

"Let me speak to him", asked the voice.

"Master! You are not strong enough!"

"Bah! I have strength enough for this!"

In a move most confusing to Harry, Quirrel began to unravel his turban. To his surprise, the Professor was actually bald under his peculiar but concealing headwear. Quirrel turned around, and his bare skin began to reshape itself, progressively forming a rough human face, so gaunt and wrinkled that it almost looked like a skull; yellow eyes with black irises opened on the bewildered schoolboy. The voice, that of the skull face, spoke again, this time loud and clear.

"Harry Potter… We meet again."

"Voldemort!"

"Yes… You see what I have become? You see what I must do to survive? Live off another… a mere parasite. Unicorn blood can sustain me, but it cannot give me a body of my own. However, there is a thing that can… a thing that, conveniently enough, lies in your pocket."

Seeing where this was leading, and still stunned by Voldemort's discovering the stone's location, Harry turned away and blindly ran towards the gate.

"STOP HIM!" yelled Voldemort.

Quirrel, obeying his master's command, snapped his fingers, creating a wall of fire between Harry and the corridor.

"Don't be a fool, boy!" said the dark wizard. "Why run headfirst into a horrific death, when you don't even know the whole story? I have no desire to kill you or harm you, nor your friends outside. I'll let you go, if you wish, once you have listened to me. But first, _please_ , just give me the stone!"

"Never!"

"Haha! Bravery… Your parents had it too… That foolish Gryffindor bravery that, however beautiful it may seem, will get you nowhere, except to your demise. No. Success lies in cunning plans, clever schemes, in thinking things through. So let's think, shall we? And talk."

Quirrel took a step backwards, getting Voldemort's face closer to Harry.

"Tell me, boy. Why won't you give me the stone?"

"Because… Because… Because if you took it away, Master Flamel would die!"

Voldemort looked at Harry, dumbfounded. Unnerved, he muttered:

"So people really think that low of me now…"

Then louder:

"Of course Master Flamel would die if I took the stone away! But I have no intention of doing so! I never had, I never would! It would be cruel and unnecessary and stupid!"

At the angry rants of the wizard, Harry had backed away slightly, frightened. Voldemort was panting now, the artificial face blurred somewhat by the caster's exhaustion.

"Today I only seek a new body for myself. It will take… half an hour or so; Mr Quirrel here, under my guidance, will do it in this very room. And when my resurrection is complete, I'll put the stone back where I found it and leave. Now give me that stone!"

"But it's not… it's not just that. It's… Hagrid told me… you killed people!"

Voldemort seemed about to answer to this new accusation, but he suddenly seemed to sense something. He said, as much to himself as to Harry:

"Dumbledore! That confounded meddler is approaching… Is he here to rescue you, or is he merely visiting the classroom above us?… I cannot take the chance. Give me the stone now, boy! We'll talk later, elsewhere!"

"No!"

"I expected you to say that — but mark that I did give you a chance. Ah, well. Quirrel! Get that stone!"

Quirrel turned back to face Harry and rushed towards the boy; Harry threw himself backwards, ending up lying on the floor, the stone rolling a few feet away. Quirrel tried to get it, and Harry, instinctively, grabbed the man's hand. As he did so, the flesh that he had touched began to burn without flames before finally crumbling into ashes, making Quirinius Quirrel scream in pain.

"Aaah! Master! What is this magic?!"

"FOOL! yelled Voldemort. Get the stone!"

The Hogwarts professor, raising his remaining hand, went for the stone; understanding his adversary's weakness, Harry threw himself in his path, putting both his hands on the man's face. In a last agonized scream, Quirinius Quirrel's whole body burned down and turned to dust. And for one faint minute, Harry hoped all of this was over. However, it was not. The smoke of the magic fire that had consumed the Dark Lord's minion slowly rose over the remains of the dead man, and began to took the shape of the skull-face. It turned towards Harry, whose scar felt like it was going to explode any second, and spoke.

"Congratulations, boy; you have just killed someone. See how easy it is to do, in the heat of the moment? And yet, would you think me righteous if I now refused you your last chance to live? Eh?"

Harry had not quite realized what he'd done. Now he looked again at the empty suit that still contained the pile of ashes that had once been Professor Quirinius Quirrel. Professor Quirrel had been a liar and a servant of evil. And yet, and yet, he felt a horror for his actions, a sorrow over the man's passing. He hated himself all of a sudden. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

Voldemort's hovering form seemed as though it was about to say something, to continue the argument, to urge Harry to take the stone. However, he glanced at the boy, whom he found weeping on the ground; he remained silent, suddenly melancholy himself. For him too, it had been very hard, the first time.


	2. Escape

**CHAPTER 2**

 **Escape**

Harry, who had eventually fallen asleep after weeping for a very long tume, woke up in front of a silhouette clad in a recently transfigured black cloak. He was no longer on the hard stone floor of the Mirror's Room; a soft cushion had somehow appeared in-between him and the marble pavement. He strangely did not feel any less tired than before, though he wrote it off as sleep born of sorrow not being as healthy as normal sleep, for obvious reasons. He found strength to open his eyes and raised them. He was shocked as he discovered the skull head, livelier than before but still quite frightening, sitting on top of the cloaked figure's shoulders.

"Voldemort!"

In an instant, the aspiring hero was on his feet. He turned around; the fire wall no longer blocked his way. But was it still the time to make an escape? Things had changed. The first time around, he had not recently killed a Hogwarts professor, and the most feared Dark Lord in history had not watched him sleep on a comfy cushion that he, the Dark Lord, had made himself. Most importantly, said Dark Lord hadn't regained a corporeal body, either. And as all of this swirled through his awakening mind, the cornerstone of it all resurfaced. He muttered:

"The… the stone…"

"…is back in the Mirror of Erised, Potter."

"You…"

Voldemort chuckled before answering:

"Yes… Yes indeed. I am complete and alive again."

This was… confusing. If Voldemort's disembodied spirit could just use the stone on its own… why had he needed Professor Quirrel in the first place? He'd made quite clear earlier, he remembered, that he intended the Defense Professor to perform the ritual.

"I see you are wondering how I resurrected myself, after the… unfortunate disappearance of our good friend Quirinius. Is that not so?"

"Yes! Who… who used the stone for you?"

Harry was ready to believe many things at that point. Yet he had not expected at all the answer that came from the amused skeleton-man.

"Why, you did, my dear boy."

"WHAT?"

"Oh yes, yes indeed. Quite expertly, too, I must add. Of course, you were not really yourself at the time… Your mind is very, very vulnerable, Potter. Especially when you're asleep, and most especially to me, for reasons I'll explain later."

This was yet another piece of world-shattering information. He had been starting to believe that Voldemort was, actually, not so bad — but how could he believe anything, now that he knew he couldn't even trust his own memories? Trust himself? Slowly, he took another step towards the gate, anxiously watching Voldemort, awaiting his reaction.

"Oh, you may leave, if you so wish. But I still have so much to explain to you."

Harry was not sure whether he'd have left after all, or stayed to listen to the gaunt man's story. The decision, however, was taken for him when a red blast bolted from the dark corridor and hit him before he could dodge.

* * *

Voldemort immediately put up several shields, while another cloaked wizard was running through the corridor; it was none other than Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. Soon, the bearded wizard realized his mistake: he had not hit his target, but an innocent hostage.

"TOM! Let go of the boy this instant!"

Voldemort had picked up the Gryffindor boy and was holding him in his arms.

"No, Albus. This boy has much to discuss with me, and… ah, my old friend, I would have much to tell you also, but I'm always wary of you stunning me in the back the moment I stop fighting. Therefore, I will transport Mr Potter to a safe lair of mine for the time being. He will return to this overrated school of yours if and when he decides to. Good bye."

Dumbledore, only half-listening to the man's words, had been trying relentlessly to break his shields, one by one; but before he could work his way through the last one, which was of a kind he had never seen before, the Dark Wizard apparated away along with Harry.

* * *

Harry woke up once again, and once again the scene had changed. This time, he was sure, he was no longer in the Mirror's Room. He was lying on his back in what was obviously a large wooden bed, with dark red sheets. Looking around himself, he found that the room was smaller and cozier than the foreboding forbidden parts of Hogwarts; he was in a house or a mansion, it seemed. The bedroom was… nice, he supposed, though whoever had designed it had a peculiar esthetic sense. The furniture was ornate and delicate, but the decorations themselves were spiky, dark things, with such recurring motives as snakes curled up around spears and grinning skulls. The walls were decorated with green and blue Damask wallpaper; it was just the kind of wallpaper in which scared children found watchful, evil faces, and not only did Harry see them, but he could have sworn some of them had actually blinked and looked at him. Outside the warm bed, it was also very cold. On his right was a black bed table with a piece of parchment sitting on it, and next to it, his glasses and a silver bell. Putting the glasses on his nose and unfolding the parchment, he read:

 _Mister Potter,_

 _The most deplorable condition that allowed you_

 _to dispose of my minion earlier today prevents me from_

 _waking you up myself. I must thus wait for you to_

 _come back to your senses on your own. I am not_

 _a truly patient man, and I have matters to attend_

 _to, as any recently resurrected wizard would._

 _If you wake up before I get back, already_

 _learn the following facts:_

 _— It is Headmaster Dumbledore who stunned_

 _you, though you mustn't blame him; he was targeting_

 _me and did not know that you would be standing_

 _in the way._

 _— You are currently in a mansion of my own devising. I_

 _cannot betray its location and nature to you,_

 _as you haven't yet proven yourself a trustworthy_

 _ally; I expect you will, in time._

 _— If you are reading this, you will have already found your glasses._

 _Your wand is in the second drawer of the commode sitting_

 _in front of your bed._

 _I will be back with you at about 3 p.m._

 _Yours truly,_

 _Lord Voldemort_


	3. In the Snake's Den

**CHAPTER 3**

 **In the Snake's Den**

The mansion was quite remarkable. Harry had passed through many rooms, trying to distract himself until his mysterious host's return, and maybe find a way to escape, should Voldemort prove not to be as friendly as he claimed. Among the rooms were a large kitchen where animated appliances were already preparing dinner, a library so rich in forgotten mythical books that Hermione Granger would have fainted upon seeing it, what he could only describe as a greenhouse even though the walls were perfectly opaque (the sunlight necessary to the plants' growth flowed from a diffuse, unseen source), and a large living room that included a dining table with two chairs, a set of armchairs, a fireplace where a green fire was burning, and a carved throne. On the throne, he noted with disgust, a large sleeping snake was curled up. There were also other doors in that room, through which Harry could not walk: one of them, from the sound and smell of it, led to a potions laboratory, and another, secured by many locks, led in all likelihood to a collection of precious artifacts.

Having pushed his explorations as far as he could, he sat down in one of the armchairs and waited. He tried to review his situation, and also that of his friends. Dumbledore's stunning him at least demonstrated that Hermione had succeeded in sending him a message; Ron was probably okay, too. What exactly he was doing in the luxurious mansion of the most feared wizard in the world was more puzzling.

"Ah, thththere you are!" said a voice. Harry looked around him, but the only thing that had moved was the snake on the throne.

"Don't look ssso sssuprisssed."

…It was definitely the snake speaking.

"It isss I, Voldemort."

"…How is that comforting, exactly?" asked Harry.

Instead of answering the question, the snake crawled down the throne and climbed onto the dinner table before asking another question itself:

"You mussst be wondering what isss happening, yesss?"

"Well… yes?"

"Perhapsss you think I'm an Animagusss? That isss not ssso."

"Hold on, I don't even know what an Animagus is."

"…of course."

"Through a processs you cannot yet underssstand, I am posssesssing thisss sssnake."

"I see… But how do you speak through its mouth? I mean, I'm not that good at science, but I don't think snakes even have vocal chords to begin with."

"I could anssswer "magic" and that would account for it, boy; it is ssstill obvious that you were raisssed by Mugglesss and are not usssed to sssuch everyday wondersss. But thisss is more complicated. I am ssspeaking the Tongue of Sssnakesss, which you and I have the gift to underssstand."

This was a very satisfying answer to a little anecdote that had been puzzling him for more than a year: what exactly had happened the day that snake in the zoo had seemed to thank him for freeing it. He had mostly believed that he had just hallucinated. Then he'd come to Hogwarts, and the reveal of magic had made him reconsider and think that it was probably an ability of wizards to speak to animals, as was said in countless storybooks. A few pointless attempts to speak to cats, dogs and rats later, he had reverted back to the "hallucination" hypothesis. Now he'd learnt that he could speak to snakes, in a way that left little doubt as to the veracity of the assertion. Rather more concerning was the fact that snakes could speak in the first place, if only in their own tongue.

"Snakes are sentient?!" Harry asked, baffled.

"Not exxxactly, answered the snake-Voldemort. They are cleverer than mugglesss thththink, and you can hold a decccent conversssation withthth more highly evolved ssserpentssss that Mugglesss don't even know off, such as Basssilisssksss. However, none of them are truly on thththe sssame level as humansss. They can talk about factsss, about their preysss, for instanccce; thththey can be ordered; but you cannot bring thththem to underssstand human conccceptsss like technology, writing… politenesss…" Voldemort trailed off, looking at Harry intently. It struck the boy that the emphasis on "politeness" had been intended.

"Wait, you know about…? But how would you… And if snakes can't be polite… Then how…"

"Ha! Ha! Ha! My poor innocccent friend… Do you not sssee the obviousss? That sssnake was me."

"WHAT?"

"Thththat's right, boy. However, asss interesssting as thththisss little dissscusssion might be, thththere isss, actually, a reassson for my appearing to you thththrough thththe sssnake. My new body isss ssstuck at the other ssside of the Floo becaussse you let the fire on thisss end burn down. Pleassse add firewood."

"The fl-what?"

The snake shook its head in a manner that Harry understood as a sign of annoyance.

"You muggle-raisssed are exxxhaussstingly ignorant. Just add firewood and you'll sssee what I'm talking about."

Harry obeyed, and as soon as the green fire reappeared, Lord Voldemort burst out of the fireplace, an angry look on his ghoulish snake-like face.

"It certainly took you some time, boy, he said. Still, I am glad to see you on your feet. How do you like my home?"

At this question, Harry snapped:

"Why have you brought me here?!"

"As I said earlier, we have things to talk about; you still know next to nothing about me and the lies spread about me, or even about how I escaped death. And I still don't quite know what you think you know."

"That's no reason for keeping me-"

"Discussing this things will not take long; after that, it will be your choice to go back to Hogwarts or not. Until then, I do suggest you do not try to leave. I may not be the villain everyone says I am, but I am still a battle warlock and I would defend myself without a moment's hesitation should you try to harm me or escape."

Harry was quite frightened; he lowered his wand and sat down, ready to listen.

"Now, how shall we go about it, I wonder? the wizard mused. I suppose the best thing would still be for you to ask me questions, boy; and I shall answer them truthfully."


	4. The Events at Godric's Hollow

**CHAPTER 4**

 **The Events at Godric's Hollow**

Harry hesitated. He was half-convinced that, for the moment, Voldemort wasn't intending any trick, but he dared not ask the question that burnt his tongue — why had he killed his parents? — for fear that it would anger the dangerous man. Instead he decided to begin with a comparatively unimportant question:

"Sir… what does the Philosopher's Stone do? What's its story?"

"Ah… Intelligent question, boy. You must always know as much as possible about what you are trying to protect, it is an important rule to any wizard with half a brain. Well. The Philosopher's Stone is a magical crystal with which a wizard - such as Master Flamel - can perform extraordinary Transfigurations without even thinking about it. This is achieved by draining one's own magic and casting it into the stone; it is a delicate, dangerous process, hence why next to no one has managed to make a working Philosopher's Stone. I once had a fellow student who attempted it; he did it in too much of a hurry, and the magic vanished into the air when he tried to concentrate it into his still imperfect Stone. The boy ended up as a squib with no stone, which served him right, if you ask me. At any rate, the Stone's Transfigurations are amazing because of two things. First, they are permanent, unlike normal transfigurations, which must be sustained permanently by the caster, lest they fade after a day or two. Second, since they are permanent, you can transfigure living things without any risks. That is why I needed the Stone, you see: I - well, you - Transfigured a piece of rock into a new body for me, which my spirit lodged itself into."

"I see… And… Why… why did I… Professor Quirrell…"

The memory of the event was still devastating.

"Ah! Yes, of course", Voldemort answered. "Though that brings us dangerously close to _that subject you don't want me to talk about just yet_."

Harrys shivered. How did he _know_?

"There exists an unfortunate… magical incompatibility, I guess you could say… between us, because of a most unfortunate mistake I made eleven years ago. I was possessing Mr Quirrel at the time, so my magic was flowing through his body, itself weakened by the Unicorn Blood (and before you ask, yes, the unicorn blood's curse afflicted him, not me, fortunately enough). Your mere touch could have burnt me down, but since I was possessing him and had no body to be burnt, he suffered the effects instead."

Before Harry could ask, Voldemort added:

"And yes, I believe this annoying curse is still in effect. I must ask you to take all precautions not to come into contact with me. Alright, next question?"

"Professor Snape… Quirrell said he was not one of your minions…"

"No, indeed he isn't. You will have to understand that Dark Wizards are not necessarily unlawful, and vice-versa."

"But… he hates me, doesn't he?"

"Heavens, yes, he does, but it has nothing to do with me. Professor Snape and your father… James, was it? Yes, James… went to school together. Snape had… how shall I put it… a crush on your mother, …Lilly or something, and could not bear it when she chose James over him. A very silly matter, really. But you look amazingly like your father did at the same age, and that was enough to earn you Snape's antipathy."

It would feel odd to any child to hear about their own parents' school shenanigans. It felt even odder for Harry, who didn't know what his parents had looked like until this very year.

"Well, Potter? Is that all? I expected you to be rather more curious…"

" No no, I still have questions. I…"

"You are wondering why I killed your parents and tried to kill you eleven years ago. Of course you are; I'd be too, you know. A thing you must know is that I'd never kill a child, under normal circumstances. Even the child of my worst enemy, I would not harm… let alone a mere infant. I did kill more people than a Gryffindor could think possible… but always people who at least _understood_ that there was a war and what it meant. Never the innocent and unaware. Another think: I have no longer any desire to kill you. Not only did I have serious doubts about it eleven years ago, and could I never bring myself to kill a bright young fellow like you; but this tactic proved ineffectual the first time I tried it, since it earned me nine long, incredibly boring years in a bloody Muggle zoo. Forgive me, did I trail off?… Well. There was a Prophecy — have you ever heard of prophecies, Harry? I see you haven't.

Prophecies are also, more correctly, known as Maledictions — they work like so: a powerful wizard speaks a prediction, and this prediction is almost guaranteed to come to be, whatever you may do to try to prevent it. Events will be contrived by the caster's magic to turn out in a way that would realize the prediction. The Ministry of Magic knew of the threat of Maledictions and created a Hall with powerful enchantments cast on it, so that all maledictions spoken within Britain would be recorded. However, some influent adepts of Malediction created rumors (enforcing them with False-Memory Charms if need be) that there existed a thing known as Prophecy, an unknown branch of Divination that could predict the future. Prophecies, they said, were spoken by gifted Seers; spoken in mysterious terms, they would not, allegedly, be remembered by the Seer (this was very convenient, because it was easy to act out and would convince the suspicious that the Seer wasn't involved with the contents of the prophecy itself); and prophecies would tell of an implacable future that was sufficiently in the works that nothing could be done to prevent it. Oh, it was genius, I'll admit it. The hoax worked so well that today, the Hall of Malediction is known as Hall of Prophecy, and those stupid Ministry clerks treat it with a religious deference instead of trying to track down the duplicitous Seers who pronounce the Maledictions.

There was a young witch, a few years older than your Mother and Father, called Sybill Trelawney. She thought herself an agent of good, and had read far too many novels. Unfortunately, she came from an old Wizarding family and had known from the most tender age the secret of Maledictions. She decided that this was just what she needed to win the Wizarding War on behalf of the light and kill me. As I said, her mind was more familiar with fairy tales and grand epics than with the practicalities of real life, and instead of "predicting" something like 'Tomorrow at 8 o'clock Voldemort shall die', she created an intricate narrative where a Chosen One — you, son of fighters of the light who were themselves heroes — would gain enough power to defeat me and be bound by fate to kill me. I could tell you the exact wording, but I don't think it would do much good. At any rate, Sybill Trelawney had never been a very powerful witch; I assumed that her Malediction would be easy to break, for instance by removing the carpet under the whole construction's fragile feet and killing the Chosen One myself before he came into his power. For obvious reasons, I heavily preferred not to die; it was a sacrifice to break my code and kill you, but it was one I did not really hesitate about doing. Oh, don't look at me like that. You knew I had killed people before, and you knew I had wanted to kill you. I am the Dark Lord, after all.

So on Halloween, I went to your parents' house in Godric's Hollow; first I encountered your father. I hoped he'd have been away that day; he was a bright young wizard, I did not want to have to kill such a promising fellow. I could easily have cast a Killing Curse at him right away, and that would have been faster and more practical; but I decided to offer him a duel. He did put me to the test, believe me; I had not overestimated him. Still, I was the most powerful of the two, and within five minutes I had him at wandpoint. I let him know that should he beg for mercy and give up his wand, he'd live; it would be enough to keep up appearances for me. I'd have arranged to get him another wand once the war was over, maybe making him a member of my government. He refused, andI begrudgingly killed him.

Then I climbed the stairs and looked for you, for the infant; to my surprise, your mother was standing in front of the crib. I did not want to harm her any more than her husband, that you must understand. She was a young mother, a good fighter and a talented potioneer; and I had had a certain level of acquaintance with her father Harold Evans. Yes, my boy, I do believe you were named after him. At any rate, I almost regretted killing James a few moments earlier, and I made an even more generous proposition to her; I admitted to only wanting to kill you, the child, and offered to let her live if she stood aside and let me kill the boy. At first, she seemed to accept my offer; she stepped aside and appeared to wait calmly for my grim business to be over. As I turned to you and began to concentrate to cast the curse, I only barely felt that something was off with her, upset as I already was. I turned barely in time to dodge a Bone-Breaking Hex she'd fired at me wandlessly, hoping to save you. Then I raised my wand in self-defence and - I could have Stupefied her and killed you then, it is something I still wish to this day that I had done, but I did not - I did not think things through - I only understood quite what I'd done until I _had_ cast a Killing Curse at that proud woman who'd tried to protect you. I wished for a tiny fraction of a second that I had missed, I wished I could take the spell back, but my hopes were shattered as she fell down to the floor. I turned away from the product of my stupidity, eager to get this whole uncomfortable matter over with and go away, and faced the crib.

What I did not think off as I fired my second Curse at your sleeping form, my boy, was that by sacrificing herself for her son, Lily Potter had unwittingly performed an old magical ritual, by which the death of the mother protects the infant from her murderer. I knew of it, of course, but I (rightfully) did not think Lily did, and I had counted without it so completely that I did not recognize it when it was in front of my very nose (well, absence thereof, but that is another story). I blindly fired at you, and the Killing Curse rebounded — rebounded on _me_. Although my spirit was protected by other ancient rituals I had performed, my physical body was destroyed, leaving me powerless until I could get my hands on a willing wizarding victim who would let my soul lodge itself in their body to progressively regain my strength by having them drink Unicorn Blood for me or use the Philosopher's Stone or some other device on my behalf. You know the rest."


	5. Albus Dumbledore

**CHAPTER 5**

 **Albus Dumbledore**

Harry had listened eagerly, tasting every word of the man, feeling fulfilled in some way. At last the biggest mystery of his life was solved. However, the nature of the solution left him in a confused state. Was it right to socialize with the man who'd just admitted he was the murderer of his parents? That thought had been with him from the beginning, but now that Voldemort had outright told him he was the culprit, Harry could no longer ignore it. The Dark Wizard interrupted his thoughts:

"I'm sorry… Boy? Do you need some time to let that, as young fellows say, 'sink in' before we move on to other matters?"

Harry muttered a vague approbation. Voldemort was thoughtful for an instant, then asked if Harry would like anything to eat. The schoolboy realized that he was starving. He hadn't eaten since he, Ron and Hermione had entered Dumbledore's labyrinth, after all. This distraction was welcome, and he moved to the table, where various dishes quickly appeared, some of which he recognized from the usual Hogwarts menu, others that he'd never heard about. All seemed delicious, though, and he engulfed himself in the activity of devouring it all, which fortunately took his mind off the moral dilemma.

Voldemort, probably not wanting to disrupt the boy's renewed good mood with his ominous presence, _Accio_ ed a kind of purple loaf of bread from the table and began chewing on it absent-mindedly as he left the room through one of the doors Harry had been unable to open.

* * *

All the students had been assembled in Hogwarts's Dining Hall, watched over by their stern Heads of House. All they had been told so far was that there was crisis. The Ravenclaws were eager to know what it was all about and were already hazarding guesses; most Hufflepuffs looked scared, though the older ones comforting the first years; the Gryffindors were growing more and more reckless, demanding that the truth be told to them so that they may slay the threat themselves; the Slytherins were all staring suspiciously at each other, persuaded no doubt that the crisis was a plan form one of them gone out of control. The Gryffindor first years, for once, were the most knowledgeable sources, because they, and only they, had so far noticed that Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had all gone missing.

Albus Dumbledore, looking grave and concerned, appeared, quickly cast a sound-strengthening spell and spoke.

"Students of all ages, members of the staff, house-elves, ghosts, I apologize to you in advance for being the bearer of very bad news. Before starting to recount them, I do wish to remind you that green chocolate cakes are banned for the summer."

One Hufflepuff first year asked how that was relevant. An older one answered that it obviously wasn't, but Dumbledore was crazy.

"Now on to the news, continued the old wizard. The first bad new is that Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, has gone missing. The last people to see him yesterday, aside from myself, who only caught a glimpse of the boy when he was unconscious, were Mr Weasley and Miss Granger, here."

Hermione and Ron emerged from behind the headmaster, a worried and embarrassed look on their faces.

"Miss Granger", said Dumbledore, leaning toward Hermione, "would you please tell all of us what you, Mr Weasley and your famous friend had in mind yesterday when you entered the Third Floor Corridor."

"Well", she answered, "Harry had found out the Philosopher's Stone was going to be stolen, you see? So we just… We thought only we could…" Hermione sounded as though she was almost about to cry.

"I understand, Miss Granger", said Dumbledore, "and I am not blaming you. It was very brave of you three…" Then he turned back to the audience. "So you see, my friends, that it is trying to save the stone that Mr Potter disappeared. There rarely was a nobler battle, and we mustn't blame him for his own problems. And yes. It was indeed the Philosopher's Stone that was concealed at the end of my booby-trapped corridor. It took great skill and patience for these three young heroes to make their way through it; you must grant them that. You must also rest assured on one point: the Philosopher's Stone is safe. For whatever reason, the intruder didn't take it with him when he fled."

Professor McGonagall seemed trying to get the Chief Warlock's attention. Eventually the white-bearded wizard listened. The Transfiguration teacher whispered:

"Enough beating around the bush, Albus - just _tell_ them! The longer you delay it, the greater the shock will be!"

"Alright, Minerva, alright", answered Dumbledore. Then loudly: "I have withheld the truth long enough. Harry Potter's kidnapper was none other… than Lord Voldemort."

Utter terror barely describes the audience's reaction at that moment (though the Slytherins were noticeably less frantic than the rest). One student rose from his seat and yelled:

"It can't be! He's dead!"

Dumbledore magically silenced the rest of the room before answering, in strange, almost sad tone:

"Yes… Yes, he _was_ dead."

* * *

The exact moment Harry had finished his meal and was beginning to feel better, Voldemort came back from the mysterious room.

"Boy, are you ready to continue?"

Harry paused before nodding. He'd decided that either Voldemort was not evil and he wasn't in any danger talking to him, or he was evil and he had better not disobey him.

"Huh… Can you tell me more about Dumbledore?"

"Albus? Yes, I suppose I can. I suppose a boy your age must have stumbled upon a Chocolate Frog card of him already?"

Harry nodded, remembering the card, his surprise when the drawn Dumbledore had moved, and Ron's explanations…

"Yeah… it said… he was the greatest wizard of modern times…" said Harry, somewhat hesitant.

"Blatant propaganda, that. I'm far more powerful than Albus, and neither of us can compare next to Master Flamel. Although perhaps they don't count him as a wizard of 'modern times'… never mind that for the moment. What else?"

"They also said he had worked on alchemy with Master Flamel… Discovered twelve uses for dragon blood,… oh, and there was this Dark Wizard he fought…"

"You mean, me?" said Voldemort, looking somewhat flattered.

"I don't think so, it gave a name… Grinningwald, or something."

"Ah, Grindelwald! Of course, how could I forget? Grindelwald was, much unlike me, a genuinely evil monster. I doubt he ever really understood good, for all he claimed that he was working 'for the greater good' when Albus finally got his hands on him. Scorpius Grindelwald was born in a little German town around 1910, and studied magic the old way, in an apprenticeship. He created great battle spells, but much of his success was due to his great war tactics. In the second half of the 1930's, as you probably know, some lunatic German Muggle somehow got himself elected leader and he engaged his country in a useless war for control of Europe that got out of hands and spread like a disease throughout the Muggle world.

Grindelwald, being German, took what little information about Muggle affairs he got from local newspapers; and those were obvious propaganda. Grindelwald underestimated Muggles too much to think they could possibly do something so elaborate as to lie to their populations, and he believed every word of it, the fool. He saw this dictator praised as a great hero and depicted as being inches away from successfully ruling the world. It was not the case, of course, but Grindelwald decided to do the same thing in the wizarding world, persuaded that he could succeed even better than the Muggle, since he had magic to back himself up. He turned out to be a competent war leader, as I told you, and soon he was seriously threatening Wizarding Britain. Albus Dumbledore had been the Chief Warlock of Britain for years, and, every inch the Gryffindor, this scholar, with little fighting experience outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts class he'd taken as a boy, decided to go fight Grindelwald himself. To this day I don't know how he managed it, because as has been tested today, Dumbledore is a hopeless duelist. At any rate, he became a famous hero and was made Headmaster of Hogwarts shortly after - such is the blindness of modern wizards, I'm afraid."

"But sir, Harry said, this only answers part of my question. Can you tell me more about Albus Dumbledore himself?"

"Do you know you would have done well in Slytherin, boy? You pick up on verbal tricks better than any Gryffindor known to me ever did. At any rate… Albus Dumbledore was born in 1881 in Godric's Hollow to Percival Dumbledore and Elizabeth Gryffindor. Like you, at age 10, he joined the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. To no one's surprise, the last direct descendant of Godric the Glorious was Sorted into Gryffindor. I came to Hogwarts the same year, and Albus and I got to know each other a bit; Albus was probably only making friends like a Hufflepuff, but I - though I did enjoy his company - did have some ulterior motives, namely being in the Scion of Gryffindor's good book by the time he came of age and became a leading political figure. Our friendship wasn't really encouraged by the staff and the student bodies, who seemed to have something against Slytherins and Gryffindors associating (which is idiotic, Godric and Salazar were best friends); but the few who actually took action would soon find themselves in hilarious predicaments involving deadly snakes, and by second year we managed to be left alone.

I saved Albus's life many times over the years, including from three Dark Wizards, ten random bullies, all sorts of snakes, and an absurd number of griffins that Albus thought he could tame through the sheer power of his mother's maiden name. There was also an incident involving Polyjuice Potion that I'll tell you about some other day, but Albus's life wasn't actually in danger. At any rate, we drifted apart when I began pursuing immortality; he was persuaded that this was an evil goal to have, and after attempting, with his flawed Gryffindor rhetoric, to convince me to abandon it, he left me alone with my own choices. That was when we were 16 or so. Then he passed his OWL Tests… Sorry, that stands for 'Ordinary Wizarding Level'. As I said he passed these tests, which granted him legal majority; he became Lord Gryffindor in addition to Mr Dumbledore, and he inherited a great fortune. Albus put both to good use by getting into politics, at which he was better than I'd have expected; he managed to get himself elected Chief Warlock after only three decades. He used his leisure time to fund wizarding scholars like Master Flamel, and do some research of his own. That included his famous discovery of twelve different uses for Dragon blood, a remarkable enough achievement, I must admit. Then again, even if Albus was no genius, I still wouldn't have been friend with him for several years had he been totally hopeless.

Then there was the war with Grindelwald, which I told you about; the amount of influence he got from it is absolutely dumbfounding. Among other things, he was made Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump and Merlin knows how many other stupid honorific titles, and he got several medals, including the Order of Merlin, the Order of the Phoenix, the Order of the Leaping Broom and the Order of Orders. And of course, he became Headmaster of Hogwarts. It was around the time I heard those news that I decided that the current government of Wizarding Britain was going to pot and that I had better take matters into my own hands."


	6. The Fortress

**CHAPTER 6**

 **The Fortress**

The creature was small, muscled, green, translucent and mean. Harry was sure about the latter characteristic, because the little beast was currently trying to strangle him, and that tended to demonstrate meanness, from his limited experience. Fortunately, as he was about to pass out in his bed, a red bolt hit the disgusting dwarf, who fell to the ground. In the doorway to the bedroom, Voldemort was standing, his long wand in his hand. They both stared at each other awkwardly for a few moments before Harry asked in a rattle:

"Why was that thing trying to kill me?"

"That is a common house-ghoul. Ghouls are grumpy creatures who normally haunt attics; they like dust a great deal and they feed on the magic emanated by the inhabitants of the house. I do wonder how this one made its way here, though. I thought my wards were stronger than that." He was about to come closer to the ghoul when he noticed Harry was still massaging his throat. Somewhat embarrassed, he added: "Ahem. Are you alright?"

"It'll be find… Don't worry…" said Harry, unconvincingly.

This was enough for the Dark Lord, who turned back to the object of his attention. He pointed his wand at the little creature and cast a _Petrificus_ on it before _Innervating_ it. Then, leaning to be closer to the three-foot tall ghoul's ear, he muttered some words in a language Harry did not understand. The ghoul snuffed back at him and turned his face away. Voldemort insisted, the unknown tongue spoken in more of a hurry. The ghoul remained silent, still frowning. Loosing his temper, the wizard put his wand on the ghoul's head and yelled " _Imperio_!" before talking again in the unintelligible language. This time the stiff creature answered. Once it had finished, Voldemort _Stupefied_ again before turning to Harry, who had watched the whole process with a keen interest mixed with some concerns.

"Just as I thought", concluded Voldemort. "That was not an ordinary ghoul. It was an assassin."

" _What?_ Wait, he just _told_ you that? This thing can _talk_?"

"Oh, of course."

"Then why do you say 'it'?"

Voldemort just looked at him, visibly not understanding the point.

"Harry, it's a ghoul, not a human being."

 _Voldemort obviously has at least some of the racist tendencies everyone says he has_ , thought Harry. A more selfish part of him, however, quickly added: _That being said, since that creature was trying to kill us and Voldemort might have some more information on that, I'd better not confront him on it before I find out some way to not get killed._

"So, did it say who is trying to kill me?"

"I'm afraid not… It was a wizard, dressed in concealing red robes, with his face blurred through mind magic and his voice distorted, and he paid in gold. That's all."

The first thing that sprang to Harry's mind was _Why is a villain dressed in Gryffindor colours?._ Since this was irrelevant, he discarded the thought and pondered the more interesting question, _Why is anyone else than Voldemort interested in killing me?_ His thought process was cut off by a voice beginning to say -

"Avada Ke…"

Harry practically jumped from his bed, pushing Voldemort on the ground before he could complete his spell.

"What are you doing, you little fool?!" he yelled.

"That spell - Hermione told me about it! It's the Killing Curse!"

"Well, yes, thank you, Potter, I knew that", Voldemort sarcastically answered.

"You can't just go around killing people for no reason!…" Harry said, almost desperately.

"A), that is not a person but a house ghoul, will that finally get into that thick skull of yours? B), I'm not killing it for no reason, I'm killing it because it broke into my super-secured mansion somehow, and tried to kill you. AVADA KEDA-"

"NO!"

Voldemort, unnerved, looked at Harry, then at the translucent green little creature lying on the parquet floor of the bedroom, motionless because of his own _Petrificus_. He finally said:

"…Alright. Alright. I'll leave that disgusting little thing alive, if it matters so much to you, though really… I can understand (and even agree with) your concerns for human lives, though that is a sacrifice I have learnt to make. But must you really go around trying to salvage filthy animals' life too?"

Voldemort pointed his wand at the ghoul, appeared to concentrate for an instant, and suddenly the lying form disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"It will wake up in two hours' time in a forest somewhere in Japan. I suppose we're rid of him either way, though going through this extra trouble was really uncalled for. Well, anyway, we need to think and plan. With all this fainting and sleeping from your part, you have been away for much longer than I intended, so your dear Hogwarts friends must be beginning to worry about you quite seriously, especially if word of my return has gone out. Albus knows for sure, but has he been so foolish as to tell the world? Time will tell. Hm. Anyway…"

Harry looked up at the man.

"…I think it's about time you learnt a couple of things about this fortress, since you might have to spend a lot of time here, depending on how things turn out. Sorry, boy; I know I said you could walk away at any time, but this assassination attempt does make matters rather different. There is something going on, and I'm not letting go of you until I know exactly _what._ So…"

Voldemort summoned a large map and laid it down in the air, floating just low enough for Harry to see and resumed lecturing.

"This place I like to call Maupertuis, from the name of an underground lair in a fairy tale I was rather fond of as a youngling. As you can see, it already has an impressive size; the number of rooms should somewhat approach that of Hogwarts, though most of them are just storage facilities I don't often visit; and I can create new rooms by sheer willpower, if I ever need any more. However, the best part of it all is that this whole structure is virtually undetectable from the outside world. You might not have run into it outside from Hogwarts itself, where you might not have recognized it, but there is a spell called the Space-Extending Charm, which if cast on a container of any kind will increase the size on the inside, while the object will remain the same size from the outside. Most wizards, fools the lot of them, just use it to store more things in their trunks. But there are no limits to how much you can extend the inside space; the whole of Maupertuis is contained in a medium-sized trunk. And the trunk is buried deep into the ground, with several protection charms and wards on it, somewhere in Australia. I do not give you the specifics because I obliviated myself of the details, so that no one may take them away from me. For all that Dumbledore boasts about Hogwarts, Maupertuis is probably the single safest place in the world. Well, unless some other wizard has thought of that before, made his own Maupertuis somewhere, and managed to keep it a secret, in which case, congratulations to him, but I think it unlikely."

Harry was speechless. For someone who'd lived in a cupboard the rest of his life, that opened a lot of possibilities. He could make his own palace, inches away from the Dursleys… He could hide there for the whole summer and no one would notice. He was snapped back to the present by the frightening realization that this whole beautiful plan was assuming he did get home for the summer. Another thing that hit him was that the whole thing was a lot more practical if applied to contraptions like a cupboard or a traveling trunks… you know, things with doors on them.

"But how do you get inside?" he asked, curious.

"Oh, well that's another good part. There are three ways known to me. The first one is to Apparate, which only I (or you, I suppose) can do, because Apparating requires having already been to the place you're Apparating to. The second one is phoenix-travel; only Albus has a phoenix as of today, and you need to visualize the destination to phoenix-travel, which Albus cannot do since he is unaware of the very existence of Maupertuis. The last one is the Floo system. It's a little less safe, but it does not need the user's magic to function, unlike Apparition; therefore, I needed it to be able to reach sanctuary if I was exhausted or severely injured. There are, just so you know, additional spells on the floo to stun anyone trying to use it who isn't myself. And to notify me when it happens."


	7. Memories, Part 1

**CHAPTER 7**

 **Memories, Part 1**

After exposing the facts to Harry, Voldemort had retreated into the potion laboratory, and stayed there for several hours. Navigating Maupertuis thanks to the map he had shown him, the Boy-Who-Lived decided to explore some more, for there turned out to be several doors he had missed on his first stroll. One of them led to a room marked as _Pnsv. Room_ , which intrigued him very much; it was lit by a watery blue flow emanating from a basin in the middle of the room. Countless labeled vials containing mysterious light-blue or silvery liquids were stored in shelves that covered the walls.

Leaning over the ornate basin (the circumference was sculpted to resemble - what else - a snake), Harry noticed that instead of his reflection, it showed an entirely different scene; it showed two boys in Hogwarts robe, standing in front of a larch gate. The picture was moving, though that was a sight he'd gotten used to. More interestingly, it appeared to be gaining in clarity and three-dimensionality as he moved closer and closer to the limpid surface; he could begin to make out garbled noises that were probably human speech. Suddenly, he shivered; he'd leaned so much that he had eventually plunged his face into the water. When he opened his eyes however, it was as though he were standing in front of the scene, and his eyes were not in pain from the wetness. Whatever this magic was, it was fascinating, and he dared not move or blink, for fear of dissipating the illusion that he was now carefully observing.

* * *

"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."

The dark-haired boy turned to the plumper, red-haired one and said:

"Albus, do you realize what this means?"

"This means a lot of trouble when Headmistress Merrick finds out, if you ask me", Albus answered.

"Oh, come on. We just found the entrance of a never-before-seen part of Hogwarts, and you say we're going to be in trouble. Why?"

"Because it'll be dangerous! It always is, with you! And if we get out of this one in one piece, we'll be blamed for putting ourselves in danger and exploring ourselves instead of telling a professor!"

"Albus, is that the Gryffindor speaking? I thought _I_ was supposed to calculate risks while _you_ ran headfirst into danger."

Without leaving time for Dumbledore to answer, the dark-haired boy walked through the large stone gate, his friend swiftly following along. Once they had both entered the new room, the wall closed back behind them, leaving them with no other option than to go forth. Suddenly, the dark-haired boy stopped and turned around:

"Did you hear that, Albus?" he said quickly, under his breath. Albus only stared at him. To him, so far, that creepy corridor had at least been _silent_.

After a short wait, they both resumed walking. The wall stones were bare, with no inscription, no windows, no paintings — and no torches; the darkness was only pierced by the flickering light of both young wizards' _Lumos_ spells.

The dark-haired boy once more heard the whispers. _Come closer, come, come, come closer, friends_ , the voice said, prompting him to fasten his pace to satisfy his burning curiosity. Panting, Albus was barely keeping up with him, and he asked:

"What's the hurry, Tom? I can't follow you!"

"Don't you hear?" replied the boy called Tom. "There's someone here!"

* * *

Then the picture went blank. He was once again aware of having his head plunged in a basin of cold water, which he immediately pulled himself out of. He noticed an empty vial, identical to those on the shelves, sitting on one side of the basin. Its label read:

 _Explr. Slyth. Ch. with A.D. - Hogw., 01/21/1896_

That was when he understood. Those were _memories_ , however that worked; you could pour the liquids into the basin to view them, like movies or holograms. And of course, those were the memories of Voldemort. The plump boy, Albus, must have been a 15-years-old Dumbledore; which meant the dark-haired boy, Tom, had to be Voldemort. He was surprisingly handsome compared to the skeletal snake-man he'd just met; then again, he should have known that Voldmeort couldn't have always been that way. The thought of a baby with that face was too frightening to consider. But there were more pressing matters to consider. A century-long lifetime was sitting on those shelves, and he was going to take advantage of it.

Using a silver ladle he found atop one of the shelves, he retrieved the memory and bottled it. Then be began to look for other interesting bottles. The best thing would have been the second part of the exploration, if it was there at all, and soon he stumbled upon a bottle marked:

 _Arg. with A.D. about Hrcx. - Hogw. 02/21/1896_

He poured its contents in the basin and dove inside.

* * *

The two boys were sitting at a table in a pub of some kind, wearing black cloaks.

"Never!" Dumbledore was yelling. "Never!"

"Why?" Tom answered. " _He_ showed us the way. Here", he took a piece of paper from inside his pocket, "I had it all written down. We won't make any mistakes. It's safe. I promise."

Albus seemed desperate to convince his friend: "It's not that! I trust you to complete that blasted ritual successfully… but it's the very endeavor I'm disagreeing with! Murder!…"

"Albus… You know there are evil people in the world… People whose fate is already sealed… A Muggle will do, you know! And they still have death sentences… We could slip into a muggle jail and kill a man who was to be hanged in the morning! What difference would it make for him? While we…" Tom's eyes were gleaming. "…we would be invulnerable…"

"No, Tom… The soul is not to be tampered with, it's a law of magic!"

"It's a stupid, unfair law! Unfair laws deserve to be infringed upon! Albus - don't you want to live forever?!"

Dumbledore rose from his seat and said boldly:

"NO! No, I, do, not! Life is followed by death, such is the natural order. You can't just become immortal — it's the worst kind of hubris, Tom! It's evil! Especially if you have to kill another man for it!… Come on, Tom - it's Salazar Slytherin himself who invented this ritual! It can't be good!"

"Oh, so that's the problem, eh?" Tom said coldly. "Slytherins can't be trusted, eh? They can't be good, can they? A Slytherin idea has got to be a bad idea. I thought you were above such moronic beliefs, Albus. But if that is the case, then you can't trust me, and we don't have anything to tell each other… Gryffindor."

Dumbledore had sat down on his chair while his companion was speaking; it was now Voldemort who was standing up and readying himself to leave the pub. As he was about to cross the threshold, he bowed ceremoniously:

"My mortal friend, I bid you farewell."

Dumbledore, tears in his eyes, looked as though he was about to get up, to come after Tom; but already the dark-haired boy had closed the door behind him and disappeared into the night.


	8. Memories, Part 2

**Chapter 8**

 **Memories, Pt. 2**

 _In Mrs Cole's Office - Wool's Orphn., Autumn 1890_

Mrs Cole was a tall woman with sharp features and grey hair, sitting at a dusty desk on which papers and books were piled up in ways that defied common sense. She seemed alarmed and uneasy as she stared at the black-haired boy sitting in front of her. The boy was equally disturbed, if not more so, with an added layer of shame visible on his small and round face.

"Tom…" she said, before finding herself unable to continue.

The boy looked at her and said, weakly:

"It's about Billy's rabbit, isn't it?"

"Well yes,… among other things. Poor Billy came to my office, whining and yelling, claiming that you had killed his rabbit."

Tom wasn't looking at her when he said:

"So I'm going to be punished again… right?"

"Oh, no…" answered Mrs Cole before she added: "Well, I don't think so. I had Peter look at that poor creature's remains. It bears no bruises of any kind; and it was old… If not for Billy Stubbs' protests that you were to blame, I would have naturally assumed it died of old age. You see, Tom? I don't think you did anything wrong."

The boy wasn't responding.

"Tom?"

Tom remained silent for a minute, and eventually blunted out:

"I killed it."

Mrs Cole was quite taken aback:

"How can this be? Tom! It's not possible. There is no way you could have killed that poor thing."

"I did!" said Tom, almost crying. "I don't know how I did… but… You see — Billy and I had been fighting. And the night before yesterday, he broke my storybook in half. I was… I was so angry… I thought I could make up for it by breaking something of Billy's, too… I wasn't thinking… I just… I saw the rabbit…"

"And?"

"And I wished it would die, I wished it with all my mind… and… and it did! Just then!"

The stern matron looked at him in disbelief, somewhat frightened; she quickly pulled herself back together and tried to reassure the anxious young boy.

"Don't worry", she said, as motherly as possible, "it can't be. There are no such things as magic and witchcraft… It was just a case of unfortunate timing, I'm afraid."

"No it wasn't. And… there are."

"What?!" she spat worriedly. The boy's sanity was clearly disturbed.

"There are such things as… as… magic, Mrs Cole. I can move things without touching them… and I can sort of hear what the other kids are thinking - it's not quite clear, but if I focus, I can…"

* * *

Harry's viewing of the scene was interrupted when he heard fast footsteps. Pulling his head out of the basin, he was just in time to see a definitely grumpy-looking Voldemort enter the Room.

"Boy, I must admit I expected you to find this room sooner or later, but I still had hopes that you would, well, _ask_ me before you watched some of my personal childhood memories. I wouldn't blink if you were a Slytherin or even a Ravenclaw, but is that what a Gryffindor is supposed to do? Hm? Well. It is largely irrelevant. You have undoubtedly acquired a great deal of puzzling new information, about which you are going to pester me with questions, so we might as well get rid of that now."


	9. Sacrifices

**Chapter 9**

 **Sacrifices**

"Well…" Harry was hesitating, "there is this word I came across in one of the memories…"

"Yes?"

"It's a spell… or object, I don't know… that seems to have something to do with-with death. It's called a 'Horcrux'."

Voldemort looked at him, somewhat surprised.

"This defies probability! he said. What were the odds that in one hundred years' worth of memories, you should happen to find that one?!… Ah, well - now that you know that much, I might as well tell you now. A Horcrux is an object in which a wizard conceals part of their soul."

"What? Why would anyone _do_ that? It's… isn't there a law of magic against that?"

"You are thinking of Adalbert Waffling's First Fundamental Law of Magic. The exact words are: _Tamper with the deepest mysteries — the source of life, the essence of self — only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind._ Indeed it can seem ominous, but it does not outright forbid tampering with the soul, you see. It appears to, and it's enough to drive off the fools. But pay close attention to the word, and you will notice that, from a certain reading, it only urges the soul-tamperer to 'be prepared' when he performs his task."

 _This doesn't feel right, but… it sounds right,_ thought Harry. But another question was still left unanswered.

"Okay, so it's maybe not actually impossible or deadly… but, still, why do it at all? What's the point of a Horcrux?"

"Well, when part of one's soul is hidden in the object, it anchors the main part of your soul to this world, even if you should be put through things that would kill anyone else. _You cannot die_."

"But this is - fascinating! It'd be wonderful,… but - why isn't it common? Why does anyone die if you can make Horcruxes? There's gotta be a problem, a trapping of some kind!"

"Your suspicion is correct, boy… there is. More than one, actually. For a start, if the horcrux-maker's body is harmed very badly and he does not have time to heal himself properly, the body's organic functions will cease, and the wizard shall become an undead being known as a lich - a corpse still animated by his own spirit and still in possession of its magic. I think it is still better than dying completely, but it is still a somewhat gruesome fate, and many do not want to take the chance. And if your body is entirely destroyed, as mine was… the horcrux-maker's spirit is trapped within the horcruxes until a living man finds one of the horcruxes and willingly allows himself to be possessed by the soul. This wasted nine years of my life!"

"There has to be more than that, Harry insisted. Even then, there'd be plenty of Horcruxed wizards around. People like Lucius Malfoy would have horcruxes. People like Master Flamel would have horcruxes. And even if most people didn't have them, they'd be aware of them. It wouldn't be such a secret…"

"Well yes… there is a more visceral flaw to the Horcrux system. The sacrifice you have to make. To power this spell…you must take a human life."

" _What?_ But!… You can't just - of all things - killing to prolong _your_ own life? That is… that is the most… evil… thing… that's not this 'heat-of-the-moment' thing you told me about… Oh, surely you wouldn't…"

"I did, boy. I made Horcruxes. Seven, actually. Now this is probably my greatest secret - not, perhaps, the most well-kept one - but the most important. I know a few people have pieced it together. Albus knows, of course. He has always known. We were together, when he came across _him_ , he who told us the secret. Albus had a similar reaction to yours - only moreso. I didn't have time to explain my point of view to him properly; he left and never really spoke to me again. He even kept a close watch on me… trying to stop me from committing the needed murders, I assume. Today he is probably searching the world to find and destroy my Horcruxes. He will never find them, ever. Their location itself is a secret I shall never tell anyone, not even you, my boy."

"I… you promised I could go back if I… I was starting to believe-you **_liar! I want to go back to Hogwarts,_** ** _now_**!"

.

"I'm afraid I can't you let you do that. Not as long as House Ghouls are running around trying to strangle you when they were most certainly not hired by me or Quirrell. Now, I wrote a little memoir on why I think I was right in making Horcruxes; I knew I'd have such an argument at one point of eternity. I really wrote it with Albus in mind, but I think it will be fine. Here, take it. Go back to your room, and read it."


	10. Only Power

**Chapter 10**

 **Only Power**

 _A Memoir on Horcruxes and the Morality of their Making_

 _By Lord Voldemort, formerly known as T. M. Riddle_

 _Dear Albus, or whoever else may read these words, making Horcruxes was a difficult choice for me, but it is one I have made all the same and must now defend, in the face of the stupid wizard world._

 _Perhaps it would be wise to explain what exactly a Horcrux is and does, a topic that I had, of course, thoroughly researched beforehand. The basic principle, as I suppose all of my potential readers already know, is for a wizard to split his soul, an effect achieved through a murder, and to conceal one part of it in an object, a process which allegedly protects the Horcruxed party from death. This description might seem comprehensive, but it is actually relying on several shorthands that must now be cleared. First, a rather crucial detail that is not usually explained his how the splitting of the soul protects the Horcruxed one from death. The reason, I have found, is that a soul yearns to be whole, for that is its nature; powerful magics hold it together, and when a part of it is separated, it is still attracted to the other piece like a small chip off a magnet, if you will. Therefore, when a lethal situation threatens to destabilize the 'main' soul — that is the one that remains in the Horcruxed one's body —, the concealed soul piece, or pieces, act as anchors that stabilize the main soul and prevent it from disappearing or 'moving on' to the Afterlife._

 _Secondly, there has recently been some debate over the nature of a soul in the first place; Muggles have indeed discovered that thinking processes similar to what any human being performs can be achieved through the mere structure of the brain, without any need for a magical mind-holder such as the soul. My tests lead me to conclude that a soul is a permanent magical phenomenon that copies the state of the brain at any given moment; should the brain be damaged or otherwise stop functioning properly, the soul takes over, so to speak. This allows wizards to keep thinking as humans when in Animagus form or put through other similar transformations. The soul, still according to my studies, can however only store a finite amount of memories on its own, which is one of the reasons why one should not stay under Polyjuice or in Animagus form for too long, lest he suffer issues such as amnesia or even outright insanity. This very same thing also accounts for the so-called 'forgetfulness' and 'thick skull' of ghosts such as that of our dear departed Professor Binns. Speaking of ghosts, I do believe they are manifestations of souls, and not a separate phenomenon such as a 'magical imprint' as has sometimes been posited. However, I find it noteworthy that ghosts have only ever been known to manifest in heavily magical locations, a fact that is perhaps best illustrated by the profusion of ghosts at Hogwarts. My theory is therefore that ghosts are souls that are sustained post-mortem by the surrounding magic field._

 _Since we have now settled the matter of ghosts, this leads us right into the next issue, that is the so-called Afterlife. No actual evidence has ever been found of its existence. It should be a telling sign that the Afterlife currently imagined by our wizarding scholars is inherently unreachable, for some unexplained reason. There are only two objects that allegedly prove a persistence of non-ghostified souls after death: the Resurrection Stone, and the Veil. The Stone is very easily dismissed, for it is merely a legend, quite lovely but also quite unfounded. No records speak of any 'Peverell Brothers', nor does any contemporary wizards mention the Stone's creation in their writings, which is quite surprising, as such a breakthrough would have been a ground-shaking event. The Veil undoubtedly exists, that is fact, but it may still be a hoax, designed perhaps by the wizarding pope in the times when our religion was ruled by secular priests. Once again, I find it quite conspicuous that there is no way of observing what lies on the other side. It would be ludicrously easy to build a thing identical to the Veil — a Hogwarts first-year could do it easily. Build an archway, hang a piece of black cloth, and enchant it so that it Vanishes anything it touches; add an enchantment not any more complicated that the Howler Charm, to make the glorified wnidow curtain produce ominous whispers; and lo and behold, The Veil. If it did exist, I could also think of several ways the Stone itself could likewise be faked._

 _What the believers always answer to this argument is that 'Our Creator' could not have been so evil as to allow for true oblivion to exist for his children. That is assuming that there is such a thing as an omnibenevolent Creator. I have yet to see any evidence whatsoever of such a being's existence. It is a superstition that Muggle researchers lay aside long ago, though the masses still abide to it. To that, those same blind wizards will answer that the existence of magic is evidence to an omnipotent creator's existence. This is nonsense; if magic was a miracle brought forth by a benevolent God, and not a mere law of nature, why would there be nearly as much Dark magic as there is Light magic? Like all things in this world, magic is a neutral phenomenon, and can be used for good or for evil alike. Could the benevolent God have designed the Cruciatus Curse, or let some creature of his design it? Rubbish, I say._

 _The sad truth, I am very much afraid, is that the soul, this beautiful system, is a human creation. Some great wizard, whose name has unfairly been forgotten by History, must have designed it millenia ago, for the purpose of allowing human transfiguration; the existence of ghosts in some magically-charged place is likely an unforeseen side-effect which has unfortunately lit the hopes of the unfortunate mortal crowds. Alas, it was not designed to hold together without the sustainment provided either by the individual's own magical core (contrary to the pureblood supremacists' belief, Muggles and Squibs — who are actually one and the same — do possess one, albeit weaker than wizards') or by the surrounding magical field. Unless they are provided with an alternate and reliable power source, souls become unstable and fade after the original individual's passing. This process takes long enough that survivors of 'Near-Death Experiences' can report an out-of-the body experience, further strengthening the belief in an afterlife._

 _With this in mind, Death becomes much more awful than any of our 'religious' wizards think it is. Death and oblivion are the same. Oblivion is a prospect I very much fear, and I have spent a significant part of my youth (of our common youth, Albus, if it is you reading those words) researching means to escape it through magic. As I have said before, magic is neither good nor evil; it is only power, the full possibilities of which most wizards are too weak to seek. If there is no good or evil in it, no great creator with his grand cosmic plans, there is no reason why there shouldn't be ways to escape death through magic. However, due to the zealous nature of the believers in the afterlife, who later were very quick to label me as a Dark Lord, that research I could only lead in secret, as I still do today. One day, I will have perfected this great creation and I shall offer it to the world. Until then, I must hide and protect myself to ensure that, in tragic irony, I will not be cut off in my quest to defeat Death by Death itself. This is why I have resorted to Horcruxes, despite the unholy sacrifices they require. Seven people, Albus. Seven carefully chosen martyrs, to allow for the survival of billions. The answer to this dilemma is obvious in retrospect. I even tried to arrange for my victims to be made into ghosts, although that did not, sadly, always succeed._

 _I have also been attacked for making seven Horcruxes, rather than only one. My opposer (you, dear Albus, if it is you reading) argued that this was overdoing it, that one murder was bad enough. I beg to disagree. The alleged 'luck' of the number seven, unlike what a certain newspaper woman by the name of Skeeter insinuated, has nothing to do with it. I made seven Horcruxes simply as a safeguard: if one should be found and destroyed, I could still rely on the others, hidden in other places with other protections, making the likelihood of all of them being destroyed at once infinitesimal. Finally, I will explain why my last Horcrux (this is the only one of which I will disclose the nature) is a mortal, living being, a snake. It, too, is essential to my safety: should (Heaven forbid) my body be entirely destroyed, I could only regain one by temporarily possessing another wizard's body. Since, firstly, my six inert Horcruxes obviously need to be hidden in unreachable locations, and secondly, physical contact of the Horcrux with the possessed wizard is needed for Horcrux-based possession to take place, it would be best to have a special Horcrux that I could control to move around and find a suitable host in such an occurence. I made a snake because I know a few of my Knights of Walpurgis (whom the public may know better by the disgraceful name of Death Eaters, also courtesy of Mrs Skitter) to be Parselmouths, which would then allow me to communicate with my future host, which I could otherwise only have achieved by Horcruxing a human being, which would of course be an ethically abhorrent idea._

 _I hope I have argued my case satisfyingly._

 _Lord Voldemort_


	11. Another Ghoul

**CHAPTER 11**

 **Another Ghoul**

No. It couldn't be. If there was no afterlife… If ghosts were the only thing that could remain of someone after they died… Then…

Then his parents…

His parents really were…

This moment of horrifying realization was interrupted as Harry heard hurried footsteps and grunts that were all too familiar. Another House Ghoul? The creature was nowhere in sight. In fact, the sounds seemed to come from the room above his own. Other sounds managed to get through the ceiling: a raspy voice casting spells, furniture being knocked down, explosions.

Suddenly, the raspy voice yelled: " _Sprengstoff_!"; a noise louder than anything he'd heard before followed, as well as a blinding flash, and when he looked again, there was a hole in the ceiling. On his bed, among the rubble, lay the House Ghoul. Its coarse and warty skin was a rather disgusting shade of green, but Harry noticed that it was wearing a delicate necklace. That was rather odd, contrasting with his otherwise rough clothing (a dirty rag folded into a loincloth). The other remarkable feature about this House Ghoul was that it was apparently missing an arm; the wound did not bleed (magic could be thanked for that) but looked recent.

Before the boy could do anything, the tall figure of Voldemort floated down into his room. Once he had landed, the wizard looked at the House Ghoul, then at him.

"Boy? What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Nothing. Nothing." Harry said quickly, feeling as though he was being accused of something.

"Sweet Salazar, I'd not realized your room was down here. Ahem. As you may have noticed, it would appear another ghoul assassin has popped up. You see, I was checking my mantlepiece, to check how much the Floo system has been fiddled with, when out came… that creature. I did not immediately Stun it, because I wanted to check if my wards did work. Unfortunately, they did not, and that split second was enough for the ghoul to run away. I'd been chasing that pest for a few minutes when the German Blasting Hex I most foolishly cast tore through the ground. And here we are. Now, if you will forgive me…"

Harry stepped aside, and Voldemort approached the ghoul. As soon as he noticed the necklace, something in him ticked.

"No. It can't be." he muttered as he turned the Ghoul around to undo the necklace. He stared at the locket, then closed his eyes. "Oh, no."

"What's going on, sir?" asked Harry.

"This… There's no use hiding it, boy: this is one of my Horcruxes. I have no idea how that ghoul found it, or why he brought it here, but I am in great danger."

The Dark Wizard did look appropriately thoughtful and worried for someone who had just realized somebody was trying to round up his mangled soul and destroy it. Pacing nervously, the necklace in his hand, he asked himself in a voice that could not help but scare Harry a little:

"Why… why did I not _sense_ it had been taken from its haven? How could anyone find it, let alone steal it? Are all my protections mere nuisances? And ghouls, of all things! The most pathetic, slow, witless beings of the wizarding world!"

He was now looking at the ghoul with his feverous blazing eyes, and, suddenly, he drew his wand, yelled a word; a blinding green light shot through the air, too fast for Harry to even move to protect the creature — and it was dead.

Both humans stood as still as the dead ghoul for one fleeting moment. Harry was too stunned to speak… for this deadly flash of green, so dark and so blinding, so silent to the ears and so loud to the soul, he had seen it before, long ago, in the most painful of moments, and now he remembered it. He had as good as seen the same scene play out again — the same man, the same wand, the same spell. It had even happened in Harry's bedroom, though not the same one.

Voldemort's mind was far from worries of upsetting the boy; in fact, he'd almost forgotten the boy was there. He had preoccupations of a much more urgent kind at present, and while his mind raced to determine a course of action to save himself from Death once again, a discreet feeling of doubt was gnawing at him, the certain knowledge that he had made an important mistake, one unworthy of his House, his ancestry and his ambitions. But he oughtn't worry about that yet.

There was a certain pain he always felt around his Horcruxes, a sort of tearing at his very core; it was the pulling of his soul, yearning to patch itself together once again even though the powerful spells of Salazar Slytherin held it apart. Why hadn't he felt _that_ while he was chasing the wicked little creature? Only magic as powerful as the Great Slytherin's own ritual could have shielded him even further from parts of his own self…

"Sir…"

Drats. The boy again.

"I think…"

"What?"

"Don't you think,… I'm sorry if what I'm going to I say sounds stupid, but… Maybe if you… hadn't… killed that ghoul…"

"Oh, not again!"

"…maybe you could've interrogated him?"

"What?! I… yes, yes, I could have! How could I have been so stupid!… Well, it's too late, now… Now leave me alone, boy. I need to study whatever enchantments were placed on this Horcrux."

"Sir? Shouldn't _you_ be going away? I mean, you _are_ in _my_ room…"

Voldemort, who had already begun casting spells at the locket under his breath, looked around, confused, before nodding:

"Ahem. You are correct. I shall trouble you no further."

And he walked out of the room.


End file.
